Chapter 15
With his Guard surrounding the barn, the remaining Daemon Princes interspersed between them, Michael crouched in the cover provided by the knee-high grass that populated the neglected farmland. Clouds spread thin across the in the once bright sky, dropped low and began to gather and turn gray, their shadows darkening the landscape. A gentle breeze picked up and the tall grass waved in the brisk wind. Dion sat at Michael’s side, the young practitioner’s lips moving as he mouthed something whilst his shaggy hair blew around his face. With any luck, Dion would be powerful enough to banish every last one of the pure evil creatures contained within the derelict structure.
Fates, if the weather continued to worsen, Michael feared the sagging barn would collapse, and he needed the Kings and Horsemen within the boundary of its walls for this to work.
The Kings covered their backs well. They had a spell cast by a practitioner—either willing or forced—which meant no one could enter the barn without detection. It was up to Dion to cast a stronger spell. One that would, instead of keeping the Guard out, effectively trap everyone inside. The best way to banish the Kings and Horsemen, was for Dion to open a portal to the Underworld within the confines of the barn. Any immortal caught inside the wards would be sucked down alongside the intended targets, so it was imperative everyone on their side be free of the barn before Dion opened the portal.
To his shame, Michael considered leaving the Daemon Princes to be banished alongside their brutal sires, but a deal is a deal and Michael never broke an oath. He couldn’t in good conscious banish the wraith, and Dante made many personal sacrifices to get them this far. Michael would rather cut off his own arm than go back on his word. Besides, there was also the small detail of both Maximus and Dante, who, as they were absent, would remain on the Earthly plane even if Michael banished their cousins. Plus, Michael looked forward to dealing with the King of Lust personally, which meant the bastard would require removal from the barn before the portal opened.
When I get my hands on that sick son of a…
“I’m ready.”
Dion broke into Michael’s fantasies of violence, the male’s pubescent voice cracking as he spoke. Michael faced the young practitioner and his eyes bulged. He hardly recognized the nervous kid he grew to know over time. Gone was the uncertainty. The hesitation in his eyes. The trembling of his hands. This Dion was calm and controlled, his gaze clear and hands steady. Dion’s clothing rustled in the strengthening wind, and somehow, his youthful face aged a great deal in a short time. The wise male in front of him was a far cry from the wobbly wreck that materialized a mere hour ago.
“The wards are up,” Dion stated. “Only you and the Guard, oh, and the Daemon Princes, may pass in and out of them, but be warned, any immortal you are in contact with when you dematerialize or walk out the door, shall have the ability to travel with you. It is imperative none you desire banished touches any part of you, even your clothing, as you exit the boundaries of the wards.”
Fates, the kid was thorough. Michael was ashamed to have ever doubted Dion’s competence. The male was indeed wise beyond his fourteen short years and proved time and again capable of carrying out any task Michael asked, no arguments brokered. Seeing this more mature version of the young Dion bolstered Michael’s vow to never doubt the practitioner again. Michael sent Donovan to relay Dion’s warning to the others.
A deafening crack of lightning split the sky. Michael scented the burn of ozone and the crackle of electricity hummed over his skin. He glanced up as fat drops of rain began to fall.
“The Guard and I shall enter the barn and grab both the wraith and Lust. Wait, will the wraith be able to leave Wrath’s body whilst inside the wards?”
“He should be able to,” Dion said, swiping a trickle of rain off his nose. A tiny wrinkle formed between Dion’s dark brows as more precipitation landed on his face. “I must admit, I know nothing of wraiths or their susceptibility to my powers.”
“But the aether, it touches the wraith, does it not?” Michael learned enough about practitioners over the centuries to know the most powerful of their kind could tap into the aether, the energy force that surrounds everything—whether alive or inanimate—on the Earthly plane. Its power is limitless and as the Master of all Practitioners, Dion certainly has no problem extracting what he needed from the aether. It likely came as natural to Dion as breathing.
Dion frowned and squinted as he thought hard, lashes fluttering to protect his eyes from the increasingly steady rainfall. “Whilst the wraith occupies a host, I am certain I can influence him. But when the wraith takes his natural form, there is likely nothing I can do. He will be unbound smoke, not solid of form, and therefore, unaffected by powers of any kind, including mine own.”
See? This is exactly why wraiths are so dangerous. All they have to do is turn into that nasty black cloud and they can’t be touched. It galled Michael that he had to save the arrogant bastard that inhabited the King of Wrath’s body, but a promise was made and Jack did his part, and did it well.
“So you’re saying the wraith is trapped in the barn whilst occupying Wrath? Because your wards work against the Kings, that means Jack is trapped inside Wrath’s body until Jack and his host are beyond the boundaries of the wards?” Dion nodded and Michael cursed. Another bloody complication he didn’t need. “This means we must needs remove Wrath as well as Lust and ensure the others remain inside,” he said flatly. Dion nodded again and Michael sighed. “Let me inform the others.”
A quick pop over to relay the information and Michael was back at Dion’s side, this time with Joan, Donovan, and Tony. They ignored the sting of sideways falling rain that pelted their skin and the strands of wet hair plastered to their cheeks and foreheads, all of them focused only on their tasks.
“All right. We shall adjust our plan,” Michael said. “Donovan and Joan will grab Wrath. Tony and I will take Lust. Once Wrath is beyond the borders of your wards, the wraith can exit the host. Then we must needs put the King of Wrath back inside the barn to be banished.” Michael’s jaw ticked. “Bloody Fates, this is a mess.”
“We can do it, Michael.” He glanced at Joan who crouched low next to Donovan. The amount of confidence in the female was amazing, but then, that was how Joan earned her sainthood. More at home on the battlefield than in the kitchen, Joan stayed steady and calm, and Michael couldn’t have been more grateful for her presence. He met Joan’s steady hazel gaze and nodded, a silent thanks for her inspiring words.
Another bolt of lightning lit the now dark sky, followed by a booming roll of thunder. The rain came harder, showering them in a steady downfall.
“We can triumph. We shall triumph,” Michael said with more confidence than he felt, especially after Dion laid down the complications. Through sheets of rain, Michael met the stares of each of his loyal Guard as well as the Master of Practitioners. “Let’s get those fucking assholes off this plane… permanently.”
Michael ignored Joan’s glare—she despised cursing—and sent out the signal. In less than a minute, the dreary yet peaceful landscape would become a warzone. Thankful the heavy pounding of rain and frequent rumble of thunder masked the sounds of their approach they crept closer.
Hand raised high, Michael waited for everyone to get in place. Once satisfied, he brought it down and shouted, “Go!” and every last one of the immortals present—minus Dion who remained outside to maintain the wards and await the order to open the portal—dematerialized and took form inside the now overcrowded confines of the derelict barn.
One of the first to rematerialize, Michael wiped the water out of his eyes with damp fingers and took quick stock of the situation, astonished to discover the occupants within already exchanging blows. The Daemon Kings were fighting the Horsemen, roughly two daemons to one Horseman. The Kings used their influence and combat skills, honed over many millennia, to keep the Horsemen on defense. Even Sloth joined his brothers, and to Michael’s surprise, the lazy King proved quite skilled, landing a blow on Pestilence’s jaw that snapped the Horseman’s head back.
The Horsemen’s steeds, however, were another matter altogether. The horses, their muscled shoulders almost reaching Michael’s collarbone, lashed out with hooves the size of an alpha Hellhound’s head at anyone within striking distance. Whilst getting stomped beneath the massive hooves wouldn’t kill an immortal, it would assuredly put any one of them out of the battle and in the infirmary for a week or more. Michael shivered as he remembered Death’s pale horse thundering toward Donovan. The memory tore a growl from his chest.
It is time to release my pent up anger.
Michael relished the opportunity. Fates, he needed this.
It took Michael half a second to spot Satan, the King of Wrath, still possessed by the Wraith. It wasn’t difficult as Wrath was the only immortal not engaged in combat. If the situation weren’t so bloody serious, Michael would have laughed at the wraith’s casual attitude to the violent scene playing out literally at his feet. The wraith and his stolen body leaned against a wall as far from the action as possible in the cramped barn. Wrath looked ridiculous, snacking on what appeared to be a dainty tart? whilst watching the mêlée with a bored expression.
“Jack!” Michael called out. Couldn’t the wraith at least help the others instead of stuffing his gaping maw?
The wraith glanced up and his host’s eyes widened. “Michael, behind you!”
Michael unsheathed the Sword of Light and spun, all in one single, effortless move. The glowing blade collided with bracers that ran the length of Pestilence’s forearms, from wrist to elbow. Metal clanged and screeched as Michael used all his weight to counter the Horseman’s brute strength and advantageous position above Michael. Riding a massive white horse, Pestilence towered over Michael’s head. The steed snorted, its hot, foul breath blowing over Michael’s wet hair and into his ear.
Letting out a feral howl, Michael shoved using every bit of strength he could summon, his Archangel power flooding the barn. It proved too much for Pestilence’s steed. The beast reared and the Horseman lost his seat to tumble to the muddy ground. Before Michael had a chance to jump atop Pestilence and drive his sword through the bastard’s chest, a hoof the size of his head connected with Michael’s knee. With a loud pop, something tore. The blow sent Michael buckling to the ground with a scream.
Hellhound’s filthy asshole, that hurt!
Michael clutched his knee with his left hand, the Sword of Light still snug in his right. He rolled to his side to get on all fours when he glimpsed a shadowy figure in his peripheral vision. The shadow’s arm caught him around the waist and Michael was helpless as he found himself yanked through the air only to land several yards away. Michael glanced up just in time to see Pestilence’s white horse—the furious beast up on its back legs—as two massive hooves struck the ground precisely where Michael lay a second ago.
“By the Kingdom,” Michael whispered. The monster would have crushed his skull.
“Are you okay?”
Michael whipped his head around to face… Satan? “Jack?” He was saved by the wraith? “I-I’m fine. Many thanks.”
“None needed. Now, get me the fuck out of this place. I can’t leave this offensive body. Something about the wards.”
Michael wrapped his hand around Jack’s upper arm and dematerialized to the field, a good ways from the barn. Sounds of fighting—shouts, the clang of metal on metal, the whinny of horses, anguished cries—could be heard, but just barely over the now torrential rainfall and near constant chorus of thunder.
“Leave the King,” Michael shouted so Jack could hear him.
Lightning lit up the sky as Wrath’s head tipped back, his mouth open wide. Not once did Michael let go of Wrath’s arm. Without constant contact, Satan could dematerialize as soon as Jack left his body. If that happened, they’d lose him. But with Michael holding on, wherever the King went, Michael would go along for the ride. Black smoke with the consistency of dispersed sand rather than a vapor, blasted out of the King’s throat, gushing into the rain. There was a silent pop and the wraith was gone, unable to stay and fight without a body.
“You,” Wrath snarled, back in charge of his faculties. The King glared at Michael as if wishing him dead. Wrath’s eyes burned solid red with fury.
Michael smirked. “Satan, the King of Wrath, how utterly unpleasant to meet you,” Michael said. In a blink, he returned to the barn, Wrath in tow. Once inside, Michael released Wrath and with the hilt of his sword, landed a forceful blow on Wrath’s ribcage. Satan roared and as expected, Wrath was not one to idly stand by and allow Michael to pummel him. Quickly gathering his wits, the King fought back, and did it well. He threw punches like an immortal with centuries upon centuries of experience in hand to hand combat, and as the King of Wrath, a daemon that fed upon violence, fighting was exactly how the male spent his free time. The red of Wrath, the King’s sin, continued to shine from the bastard’s malicious eyes.
A punch to his gut had Michael doubling over. Shit. Fighting makes the bastard stronger. He’s fucking feeding off it. Encouraging it, even. Using his influence to further enrage the occupants of the barn in order to feed his gluttonous need for wrath.
Michael swung the sword, its radiant blue color as bright as the sun. The sacred weapon cut through the air. Wrath curved his spine and the blade swooshed in front of the King. It missed spilling his guts by such a small fraction, Wrath’s tunic split open from right to left, yet his skin remained unscathed.
Son of a twisted troll!
An evil grin spread across Wrath’s face and he tilted his head. “Close, Protector, but not close enough.” Wrath flexed his claws and nasty, three inch fangs protruded from his blood red mouth. Michael stood, braced and ready to meet the King’s attack, when the daemon suddenly flew sideways, soaring until he crashed into the moldy, warped boards that made up the sides the barn. The entire wall shook and Michael knew only Dion’s wards kept Wrath from smashing right through the rotted wood to land in the field.
Michael glanced back at where Wrath stood a second ago. Death, high up on his pale horse, urged the beast forward until they towered above the fallen Wrath. The monstrous steed snorted and pawed at the dirt impatiently. It shook water from its mane and let out a noise that was more screech than whinny.
“Stand and fight, Wrath. Or are you a coward?” Death taunted as Wrath climbed to his feet. Death’s voice rippled outward, a chilling echo that sank deep into Michael’s bones. Michael put two and two together and shuddered at the realization. Death’s horse body checked Wrath across the room with enough force to nearly knock out the powerful King.
Michael didn’t have time to watch the two go at it. His first priority had to be grabbing Lust and getting out of the barn with the others so Dion could open the portal. Michael frowned and wiped rain out of his eyes again. Mini waterfalls gushed through large holes in the roof to pour onto the immortals that fought for both their very existences and the fate of the Earthly plane. A quick search through clashing bodies and glinting armor and Michael spotted his prey.
Joan, his smallest Guard member, and one of very few immortals he regarded as family, slowly circled her opponent, engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the King of Lust. Michael’s stomach lurched at the sight and a streak of fear as wide as the Eastlake River twisted his insides in knots as he watched the petite saint hold her own against the nearly seven foot daemon.
Michael made to assist, ignoring the burning pain in his knee when he took a step forward, but Joan proved her competence yet again, and also how little she required Michael’s protection. Lust lunged for Joan believing he could put his arms around her and mayhap squeeze the breath from her lungs. Only, as the male’s arms closed around his prize, Joan ducked. The King stumbled as he grasped only air. Joan, now low to the ground, kicked out and swept Lust’s legs out from under him. The colossal daemon hit the ground… hard. Not allowing Lust time to react, Joan lifted a booted foot and stomped directly on the most vital body part for both a male and a creature that fed upon lust. Michael despised Lust, but even he winced in sympathy. With a roar, Asmodeus curled in a ball and clutched his brutalized groin.
“You… fucking… bitch,” the King panted. Asmodeus’s eyes watered, or mayhap it was rain leaking from the ceiling. No matter. Joan really didn’t appreciate cursing, especially the misogynistic kind that continued to spew from the daemon’s mouth.
“Shut up,” Joan growled as she grabbed the King by the shoulders, reared back, and slammed her forehead right into Lust’s perfect Roman nose. Even with all the commotion, the shouts and the sounds of fighting that surrounded him, Michael heard the daemon’s cartilage snap.
Joan’s interaction with Lust, which in Michael’s mind seemed to last forever, in reality was over and done in less than five seconds.
“Grab him,” Michael called out as he limped over. They each took one of the daemon’s arms and dematerialized, reappearing next to a very wet, very dirty, yet amazingly calm, Dion.
Michael tossed the groaning, blood-covered piece of shit to the muddy ground and stared at Dion. “Ward him so he can’t escape.” Dion nodded, but Michael already left, dematerialized back into the thick of battle to join the rest of his Guard and get everyone out.
When he rematerialized, Michael quickly tore a furious Envy off the angel pinned beneath his bulk, and with a burst of adrenaline, effortlessly tossed the gigantic King across the barn. The waterlogged Daemon King slammed into War like a cannon ball, knocking the blood and rain soaked Horseman off a chestnut red steed with fiery red eyes. By the looks of War, gore splattered upon his clothes and face, more than a few of the Guard and daemons suffered wounds at the Horseman’s skilled hands. War was the one opponent Michael feared they could not defeat. The Horseman was the very embodiment of the violent combat that surrounded them. It was highly probable that War, like Wrath, called upon his power to boost and encourage violent, bloodthirsty behavior amongst the participants of the battle, including Michael’s angelen and sancten.
Out of the corner of his eye, Michael glimpsed Tony, armed with a dagger, both the blade and Tony’s hands soaked red with blood. Tony’s expression, filled with sadistic hunger, chilled Michael to the core. Aye, without a doubt that bastard War induced violence in Michael’s Guard whilst simultaneously removing their empathy.
And didn’t that just piss Michael off.
Once more, Michael drew his sword and let out a guttural, primal roar that literally shook the rotted rafters. Giving no thought to the pain in his knee, nor the blisters caused by his waterlogged boots, Michael crouched and leapt high in the air, wings emerging to spread wide, and lunged for the fallen Horseman. Going by the sheer number of casualties strewn about, Michael knew he was the only one with a chance of taking down War. No way would he allow the soulless bastard to hurt any more of his precious Guard.
The match went on forever, and because Michael couldn’t pause for even a second to get the Guard’s attention, he was unable to give the signal to take leave. Not only would War gain the advantage if Michael focused on anything but the Horseman, but interrupting his warriors would leave them open to injury, Michael fought with passion, utilizing skills and muscles and power he hadn’t called upon in a long time.
Several times, as Michael clashed with War, it occurred to him that he should end this now. All it took was his word and the Guard and Daemon Princes would dematerialize outside the wards. Dion would then open the portal and every evil blight on the Earthly plane would be banished to the Underworld. But Michael couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give the signal until he knew every member of his Guard was safe. Injuries might prevent some of them from dematerializing and they would require help. Unfortunately, War’s non-stop, brutal attacks didn’t give Michael a chance to tell his Guard to grab one of the wounded and get them out.
Behind Michael, a loud cry shifted War’s attention for a fraction of a second. Long enough for Michael to glance around. The cry was the defeat of yet another King. By Michael’s calculations, the only foes remaining on their feet were the Horsemen and one more Daemon King. One Michael could not identify due to the massive amounts of dirt and blood caked from head to toe on the irate King.
Michael cackled at the joyous sight and smiled—a wide, heartless grin that he was certain made him appear half-mad. He loved this feeling, the freedom to fulfill his destiny, to use the skills the Fates gifted him in order to protect the Earthly plane. With his strength renewed, Michael thrust his sword at War, and cursed when the Horseman parried and struck back with his own weapon. Michael blocked the powerful blow, blue sparks showering from the Sword of Light with each clang of blade on blade. He continued to slash and stab and dance with an opponent of equal, or mayhap more skill, than he. Michael cared not how proficient the Horseman. War would not win this battle. He couldn’t win, because the Horseman lacked the one crucial element Michael used as motivation. The singular advantage that gave Michael determination and limitless strength to pull from.
He had Honor.
The Sword of Light flashed bright in the darkness and Michael roared as he swung it downward with all his might. Wide-eyed, War ducked and rolled and the blade sliced deep into the earth. Michael jerked it free and shook his head to flick rain out of his eyes. Enraged, he lunged for War again. Saints above, huge amounts of power flooded his body. Michael felt bloody invincible. Already, he captured the King of Lust, and soon, he would claim his soulmate.
The thought of Honor bound and flogged sent a fresh pulse of furious determination thundering over him. Once Michael pulled back his Guard, the portal would open, delivering this group of immortal filth to the Underworld where it belonged. All Michael had to do was get War off his back and tell his Guard to leave. Then, he would find his Honor, and once he had her in his arms, Michael would never let her go.
* * *
“Do you believe he shall return?”
Honor waited for Dante to respond. Minutes passed with no answer. Mayhap he couldn’t hear her. The lack of water and constant screaming during whippings reduced her voice to a mere rasp. But immortals possess enhanced senses. Therefore, Dante should easily hear her question.
“Dante?”
Honor twisted her head and cursed to herself when the chains dug into her flesh. If only she could see into Dante’s cell. Silence from her only companion in this infernum was torture in its own right. Too weak to struggle, Honor relaxed her aching muscles and sagged on the slab of wood to which she was bound. Fates, how long have I been here? Hours? Days? Weeks? Time meant nothing. Honor’s only certainty was that Balon had not returned to administer Dante’s or her flogging. She knew not the usual span of time between sessions, only that it had been much too long since the last one.
Not that Honor desired a visit from the sick little bastard. Nausea swamped her empty stomach at the mere memory of the thick braided leather slashing against her skin. The coppery scent of blood as her skin split and the hot liquid spilt down her sides. The slap of the whip landing whilst she cried out, the steps repeating over and over in an unending cycle until blessedly, she passed out.
Unfortunately, any change in routine was a sign. Whether it be good or bad that her reeking tormentor hadn’t returned, had yet to be determined. Exactly why she must needs speak to Dante whilst the opportunity presented iteself.
“Dante, prithee, wake up.”
Flames scorched the tender insides of her throat. On reflex, Honor swallowed and a thousand knives sliced into the raw flesh starting with her mouth and traveling all the way down to her stomach. Compared to the agony of the whip, the pain was tolerable, and Honor would accept the reprieve. It was the impotence that slowly drove her mad. The inability to do anything to escape. Fates help me. All Honor could do naught but wait, for either Dante to regain consciousness or for someone to enter the dungeon.
Honor used the momentary peace to retreat from the dungeon. She closed her eyes and sank into her safe place. Digging deep, Honor recalled a detailed scene from her most recent fantasy.
Michael burst through the heavy, locked door, and stormed into the dungeon like an avenging angel on a mission of faith. His gorgeous wings unfurled as he entered, giving him the ethereal, yet fierce look of a true Archangel, Only, upon closer inspection, Michael didn’t present as an angel, beautiful and radiant. No. His regal face twisted in fury, eyes flashing with a burning hatred. Michael scanned the dungeon and froze when he spotted Honor, bloody and broken. The Archangel threw back his head and let out a terrifying roar that shook the floor and rattled the cells, pebbles raining from the low ceiling. Honor’s heart hammered as Michael gripped the barred door of her prison, huge muscles flexing as he tore it right off its hinges and tossed it aside with an ear-splitting crash.
Once inside the cell, Michael snapped his fingers and her cuffs opened and clattered to the stones—In her fantasy, it mattered not that Michael was no sorcerer. The cursed chains broke at his command. With the utmost care, his touch loving, Michael wrapped Honor in a soft blanket to cover her modesty and scooped her into his embrace. Tears in her eyes, Honor buried her face in his chest and inhaled the glorious scent of sandalwood and male perfection. Then—
“Honor?”
Honor’s eyes flew open at the faint croak.
“Dante?”
“Aye. Something… something is wrong. I feel it.” He sounded panicked and Honor’s pulse skittered as Dante confirmed what she already concluded.
“I agree, but what?”
Honor imagined Dante shaking his head back and forth. “I do not know, but Balon…” Dante’s voice hitched. The dispirited sound brought with it a flood of grief. Its icy scales snaked around Honor’s chest and squeezed, making it difficult to breathe.
“Don’t…” Honor’s eyes burned. They would have teemed with moisture had she not been so deprived of drink.
“Honor, I’m sorry this happened to you.”
Dante’s sorrow nearly broke her. More than once Honor insisted none of this was the daemon’s fault. If anything, Dante should be cross with her. This was Honor’s fault. She was the one who obeyed Gabriel’s order to leave his chambers in the Hereafter when her soul demanded she stay. She fled the Hereafter when what she desired more than the next beat of her heart, was to sprint into Michael’s embrace. She was the one who visited Lust’s gardens without giving a thought as to who owned the luxurious estate. She was the one who failed to mask her presence whilst pouting like a child and feeling sorry for herself. And Honor was the one who fell prey to the King of Lust’s sinful compulsion and grew aroused whilst she should have fought harder to get out of the daemon’s mental and physical hold.
Even in death, nothing about her had changed. Honor remained the timid one. Unable to stand up for herself. Allowing her parents and sister to run roughshod all over her. A surge of anger filled Honor’s aching soul. Honor was sick and bloody tired of lacking in courage. Tired of bending to everyone else’s will instead of doing what her own heart desired. She never scraped up the nerve to tell her father she wouldn’t marry the incredibly dull and boring Henry. She never stood her ground and told her mother she had no interest in cooking and sewing and keeping house like a good little wife. She never let anyone know about her inexplicable, soul-deep feeling. A feeling she was destined for something more than being a housewife and mother to a man she didn’t love whilst remaining in their tiny village in the middle of nowhere.
And look where toeing the line and staying silent got her. If Honor weren’t frightened to the point of near paralysis and so exhausted even her hair hurt, she would have laughed. It appeared that in the end, she most certainly got her wish. Honor didn’t marry Henry, didn’t become a housewife or mother, and did in truth escape her isolated village. For her efforts, Honor’s reward was to spend the rest of her existence bound, tortured, and eventually raped by one of the most powerful and evil creatures on the Earthly plane.
Well done, that.
Mayhap Honor should have been more specific when relaying her daydreams and desires to the Fates back when she was still a naïve human girl. Quite the sense of humor, those Fates.
“We have to get out of here,” Dante said, breaking into Honor’s bout of self-flagellation.
“How? I cannot break the chains and neither can you.” Honor didn’t bother testing the restraints. She gave up on that a long time ago. All struggling did was cut her tender flesh, reopen the chaffed wounds on her raw skin, and further squashed the remaining spark of hope in her dull, defeated soul.
“Mayhap we can…” Dante paused. “You’re from the Hereafter, correct?”
“Aye…” Honor wondered where Dante thought to steer this conversation. Cursed chains were cursed chains. It mattered not the faction of immortal—or even human—bound by them. Only a sorcerer, and a powerful one at that, could open them unless the sorcerer created a cursed key. Like the one Lust possessed.
“I’ve heard tales over the years. Tales about immortals from the Hereafter.” Dante hesitated long enough that Honor opened her mouth to urge him on, when he continued. “I know not the verity behind the stories. In truth, mayhap they are just that, stories, but… it couldn’t hurt to try.”
“Tell me,” she said eagerly. Honor knew she shouldn’t allow it, but that teeny, tiny flicker of hope grew and glimmered faintly in the center of her shadowy life force. Under constant torture and humiliating captivity, the beautiful lilac color had been reduced to a dull, transparent replica of its former glory.
“The tale is long. I shall tell you the abridged version. In truth, the story dictates there are instances… when…” Honor waited on edge for Dante to get on with it. “When two immortals from the Hereafter share a special connection. It says they can somehow… I know it sounds mad, but it says they can send messages to each other… through their souls.”
Honor let Dante’s words sink in. Ridiculous as they were, that spark of hope surged. Honor would try anything to leave this awful place, no matter how impossible the idea.
“Tell me how.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know.” Dante’s voice continued to hitch, almost as if he couldn’t breathe properly.
That was the moment Honor realized the Daemon Prince was much worse off than she, physically at least. She knew not his mental condition, but his tone was that of despair, so Honor assumed the daemon to be in poor spirits. Dante not only sounded weak and injured, it seemed as if whilst Honor still clung to that fragment of a spark, the daemon had already given up hope. Even the fantastical story he relayed didn’t appear to lift his spirits.
He’s resigned himself to this fate.
“Mayhap I cannot see you, but I can still sense your aura, Watcher. Worry not for me. The answer is no, I no longer hold onto hope of rescue. Not like you. You are stronger than me. More worthy. Pure of spirit and kindhearted. That is what keeps you going. I am the Son of Lust, borne half evil, and deserve everything that has come to pass. I can only give you my vow. In truth, I shall get you out of here if it’s the last thing I do. For me, there is no hope. Even if I escape today, I shall forever be trapped in this life. My father will never release his hold over me—”
“But Michael is going to banish him. You said that would free you from his power,” Honor insisted, her voice rising despite the pain in her throat. “You cannot give up. I shan’t allow you to sacrifice yourself. Not for me.”
“Please,” Dante begged. The quiet entreaty shattered her heart. A single tear dripped from the corner of her eye and trickled toward her ear. “Allow me to do this for you. As penance for my father’s sins.”
Honor could only let out a choked sob as she asked, “What should I do to try this… soul speaking?”
“All I have is a theory. Remember when your life force and the Protector’s reached out for one another? That time in the chambers of the Guard of the Righteous?”
How can I forget?
Honor still didn’t know what happened that day, but it felt amazing. A barrage of pleasant sensations—security and love and arousal, surrounded her both body and soul. It was the single most intense moment she had shared with another being.
“H-how did you know?”
“It matters not how I know. Can mayhap you attempt it again? Reach for Michael’s life force?”
“I…” Can I? Honor thought not, but what would it hurt to try? “I can attempt it, but I know not how. It just… happened. I cannot guarantee success.”
“You owe me not your vow, Honor Ward. To try is all I can ask of you, and I ask for you, not me.”
“Great fates above,” Honor whispered, her breath catching. “You are truly a male of honor, Dante…” Honor’s face heated. “Apologies, I know not your surname.” How could she spend so much time speaking with the Daemon Prince, talking and telling stories of one another to pass the time, and not ask his full name? She recalled it being mentioned when the Tony introduced the daemon to Michael, but her memory failed to produce it.
“Vittorio. Dante Vittorio. Born in Italy a little over a century ago.” Honor swore she heard a touch of affection in Dante’s voice. Possibly fond memories of his true home?
“Then, allow me to repeat myself. You are a male of honor, Dante Vittorio. Whether or not we succeed, I shall never forget you.”
“Nor I you,” Dante responded. “Now, close your eyes, focus on your life force, and Fates willing, your Archangel will hear you.”
Honor did as instructed and closed her eyes. Focusing was one thing. Pushing her anemic life force outward, its hue dull and shine almost non-existent, and actually manage to influence the tiny trickle of energy was another matter altogether.